


A Confident Wreck

by Kingmaking



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6493246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingmaking/pseuds/Kingmaking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They crown them in purple and gold and red like the blood they've spilled, on a day so bright Loghain might take offense; the war is over, their mourning isn't. The heat is suffocating; the blighted sunlight makes the Queen’s hair shine like copper.</p><p>The Revered Mother places the crown on Maric's head like a headsman's axe falls.</p><p>(A retelling of A Radiant Darkness, this time from Loghain's POV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Confident Wreck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/gifts), [QueenofEden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofEden/gifts).



**I**.

They crown them in purple and gold and red like the blood they've spilled, on a day so bright Loghain might take offense; the war is over, their mourning isn't. The heat is suffocating; the blighted sunlight makes the Queen’s hair shine like copper.

The Revered Mother places the crown on Maric's head like a headsman's axe falls.

 

 **II**.

Loghain is gone from Denerim not even a month after the coronation; has to, lest he would go mad from the townspeople's short memory, the joy they take in the peace. He promises to write letters and come visit in the summer, hugs Maric and lets go first, bows to the Queen without a word. He doesn't see Maric until over a year after, on the occasion of a grand tourney in Highever the Couslands give for their first child's birth. Again, he promises to write more. 

He does write letters for the Queen as well, the words awkward, as though his own hands would fail him. He throws them in the fire, all of them. If she ever asks Maric about him, he doesn't say anything.

 

 **III**.

He walks through the busy streets of Gwaren with Celia, greets the merchants and the villagers, visits her father in his shop. The city--his city, he has to remember--has recovered well from the war and the Orlesian pigs' mistreatments, her new walls and her new harbor as proud as Ferelden can be. 

Celia is proud as well, recovering just like the city, every new day better than when he first caught sight of her, helping her old father sort through their belongings, in the ruin their house had become. The pigs had looted most of it, and burned down the shop. Celia had it rebuilt, and doesn't talk of the war. Perhaps that is a good thing. 

She makes their Anora, who turned three in the spring, play with the children of her old friends and drags him into the conversation they're having about the Queen and her pregnancy. ''One sovereign it's a girl,'' says one of Celia's cousins. ''A little Moira again, perhaps? Surely the Maker in His mercy would send the poor woman down to us again, that she might rule over the land like she was meant to.''

His wife merely smiles. Loghain knows her feelings on the matter (''Do not think of ever sending my only daughter to Denerim to wed his son, if the Maker hates me enough to give him one. She would be hated as a commoner, the way I am; do not think I am blind.'')

He thinks of the Queen, of her armor and her sword, her horses and the battles she's won. It is hard to picture her as a mother.  Then again, it was hard to picture himself as a Teyrn. It was hard to picture himself as living through this altogether. 

 

 **IV**.

He remembers Anora's own birth, how the ordeal had brought Celia to the brink of death. It was infuriating, that she would survive the war and the pigs' occupation of Gwaren only to be killed by the savage struggling of their unborn child. 

''Stay with me,'' she'd whispered. He had sent for her father, for her friends and her cousins, thinking he himself had little to do at her side. He'd never been sure he even loved her; this had been an accident, her pregnancy the result of a mistake, a night down at the village's tavern gone wrong, back when his castle was still a ruin. He'd calmed his mind with cheap wine and his body with the prettiest girl in the place. ''Stay with me, please.'' It was different, now. She was brave, capable, a far better person than he was. Defiant, too; she had tracked him down in the streets of Gwaren-- _I can make it go away, Old Beth knows how, Your Lordship would never have to bother with me again_. 

''I do not find you bothersome,'' he'd replied, not without some indignation. What kind of monster did she take him for? ''Not at all.'' It had been a declaration of a sort, an agreement. 

And it had worked, somehow, and he'd held her as she brought their daughter into the world, screaming and cursing and being utterly herself. He'd held her, and the baby, and cried. 

 

 **V**.

A rather small amount of letters full of congratulations and well-wishes had come following Anora's birth, mostly from people he'd met during the war--and from Maric, the man he'd fought it for. 

When Maric sends word that the Queen has brought forth a boy, however, he feels compelled to reply, even though he's most certain his letter will get lost among the many they're sure to receive. And so he writes three, quite surprising himself. Celia, sitting on the windowsill in what he calls his study, her back turned to the sea and her soothing waves, points it out: ''You've never been a man of many words, husband. Do you plan on writing the baby as well? Little thing's got to be brilliant, what with the parents he's got. Maric Theirin, the grand Saviour of Ferelden, and Rowan-'' 

''Don't be foolish,'' he cuts her off; she smiles her brighest smile, as though she expected him to. 

''Then I will leave you to it. Do send your friends my warmest greetings.'' 

He ends up carefully folding, sealing and sending the letters: one from a Teyrn to his King, one from a man to his old friend... and one from simply Loghain Mac Tir to simply Rowan Guerrin, titles and castles thrown aside. A recollection of their time together during the war, congratulations on her newborn son and what fine young men her brothers seem to have become themselves. An apology. 

He receives no reply; if she ever opened and read it, he doesn't know.

 

 **VI**.

Prince Cailan turns two. He has Celia's father carve a small--almost ridiculously so--shield for the boy, a gift for later, certainly less ominous than a sword. Later, Maric will tell him how his son received a sword from his mother, wooden as well, and ask if he knew. He will say he didn't know, and it will be the truth. ''Anora's idea,'' he will lie, about the shield. It is easier this way. 

At night, when his nightmares--visions of his parents, their camp, his poor, long-forgotten Mabari pup, the fires of war, the violence, the pain, the darkness of the Deep Roads, the fear of losing himself as well as losing others, the Witch of the Wilds and her contempt, Maric's traitor lover and the fate he'd forced upon her--wake him up and even the whispers of the sea aren't enough to calm him down, he walks around the empty corridors of his castle, gazes upon the city below, plunged into a bizarre darkness, even if only for a few hours. He checks on Anora, ignores their small, private Chantry as he walks past it, and more often than not ends up slipping into Celia's bed. The sheets are always cold, he always wakes her up, and she always throws him a disapproving, almost hurt look after she asks what he dreamed about and he says it was nothing.

It is easier this way. 

He wonders if Maric has nightmares still.

 

 **VII**.

Maric comes to visit Gwaren in the summer, without the Queen. He is full of apologies and explanations Loghain has heard and read and guessed countless times over already. ''One of us had to stay in Denerim, with Cailan. And... she's not feeling too well, recently. She needs rest.'' 

His King tells him little else, but Celia was always quick to gossip. He hears of the feasts the Queen gives while her husband is away, how she goes out to ride on horseback in Denerim's countryside for hours at an end, how she visits her brothers in Redcliffe and the Couslands in Highever. ''Will you  _ever_  take me to Highever, husband? I hear Queen Rowan tried to teach the Couslands' boy how to shoot a bow, but I'm sure our Ani is better already.''

When Maric, near the end of his visit, does hear from the Queen through a letter, she is full of stories about her trips in the west. Loghain doesn't want to hear them, but Maric was always quick to share: ''She asks after you and your family, wishes you well.'' His family, Loghain has no doubt about it. Himself? He nods, smiles to make Maric happy. ''And here she tells me how she's slept in her own old bedroom, in Redcliffe, and didn't wake up once. Maybe we should go there too.'' 

Another quick nod, another smile from Maric. He wonders if the Queen, too, has nightmares still.

 

 **VIII**. 

A letter comes, in Maric's messy handwriting. It looks as if it was written in a hurry, and at times Loghain can barely make out the words. When he does, however, and after he's read them a second and third time, something as cold as fear creeps into his stomach. 

> _Loghain,_
> 
> _Rowan_ _has been sick for over a week now. Eamon and Teagan_ _came from Redcliffe and brought Templars and healers from the Circle, and all they do is walk around, pray and shout at each other. It's something the healers have never seen before, they said. They offered to fetch the Revered Mother, as if it might help._ _~~They said, if she doesn't reco~~ _
> 
> _~~There are days where Rowan is barely strong enough to sit up. She won't drink, she won't eat, sh~~ _
> 
> _It's gonna be alright. Maker, we've been through worse, haven't we?_ _It's gonna be alright._
> 
> _I'll write soon. Take care,_
> 
> _Maric_

Another letter comes, over a month later, and Celia brings it to him, face unreadable and hands unsure. She sits on the windowsill, again, and observes as he breaks Maric's seal, unfolds the letter and reads it, only once. He thinks of tearing it to pieces, throwing it out the window or into the fire. Instead he becomes silent, long enough so that Celia leaves her seat and comes to kneel next to his chair. She takes his hands in hers--one of them is shaking, and he cannot tell who. 

''Tell me what's going on,'' she pleads. ''Tell me. Don't-'' 

''The Queen is dying.'' He was never one for sugar-coated atrocities. 

Celia gasps, as she does when thunder strikes or when Anora falls face-first after too much running around the castle. Silence falls on them, suffocating, until Celia lets out a sob. She kisses his hands, twice; he presses her fingers between his. ''Oh, Loghain,'' she says, with a pity that doesn't suit her, and Loghain cannot tell who it is most for.

 

 **IX**. 

Later, much later, Loghain will ask: ''But what was it?'' 

''I do not know.''

A silence. ''Did she suffer?'' 

A silence. ''No.'' (Loghain will know it for the lie it is, but find he cannot hate Maric for trying to fool himself as well.) 

And on Maric's face will be painted an accusation: _You should have been there._

And thus, Loghain will say: ''I know.''

 

 **X**. 

Loghain thinks of the first times. The first time he met Maric, the first time he met Rowan, how odd they appeared to him, the both of them, golden and proud and destined to greatness. They'd dragged him along on their journey, and he'd found he was made for war. Perhaps there had been too much violence in him, too much anger; perhaps any other boy would've died. 

The first time he saw Gwaren and the first time, much later, he walked through her gates as a lord--and a man living in a country at peace. The first time he saw Celia, with hair as golden as Maric's and a temper as fiery as Rowan's; the first time he kissed her, with the taste of wine on his tongue and hers both. The first time they shared a bed as husband and wife, the first time she told him that she loved him--she'd done so with much caution, like a wounded animal fears it might be further hurt. The first time he'd held Anora, the first steps she'd made, the first words she'd spoken. 

When melancholy threatens to overwhelm him, he goes to Celia again--sheets still cold. But her embrace is warmer, and she rests her head on his shoulder, tells him about how her father got very ill when she was young but made it through anyway. And it is odd, to see her like this. Honest, stripped of her usual defenses, the look she gives him softer, almost loving. When he gets up to leave, for they rarely share a bed, she grabs his hand, makes him come to her again. This is a first time, too. 

 

 **XI**.

He wakes up with his head resting on Celia's stomach, one of her hands holding his, the other tangled in his hair. His eyes are heavy with sleep and he wonders how late it could possibly be; the thought of losing a morning's worth of work is upsetting. 

The day goes by slowly, unpleasantly so--he blames it on the headache he got the second he got out of bed. He finds Anora on the grounds, coercing the guards into letting her practice archery again; he finds Celia in the gardens, arguing with the groundskeeper as to why her favorite rosebush has been getting worse with every new day for a week. 

Loghain himself is found by his seneschal, in the hours after dinner, after he and Celia have retired to his own apartments. The man's cheeks are flushed, his breath short, and he falls to one knee as soon as Loghain greets him. ''My lord Teyrn. A letter from Denerim, my lord. The messenger rode through the gates and collapsed right there, with his beast.'' 

Loghain opens the letter with numb fingers. It is from Denerim, yes, but not from Maric; it comes from Mother Ailis and makes Loghain's blood freeze, his vision go blurry. ''Leave,'' he tells the seneschal; Celia rushes to help the man up, hushes him outside, and is halfway through the door herself when she turns around.

She speaks; apologies, or pleas, or prayers. Insults, maybe, even. Loghain doesn't hear anything. 

 

 **XII**.

Some of the Antivan merchants who make their home in Gwaren's harbor leave, in the dead of winter, when the sun shines a bright white and wraps everything in crude, brutal light. Loghain stands on the battlements with Celia, watching as the ships grow smaller and smaller on the horizon. 

''They're afraid,'' comments Celia. ''They say Eamon Guerrin blamed the mages the Circle sent, but the common folk have more... realistic fears. They say the Queen was poisoned, and nobody wields poison better than an Antivan.'' 

''Or an Orlesian _pig_ ,'' Loghain spits. They'd closed the borders, had increased security at every dock across Ferelden, done everything they could to make sure no Orlesian could ever walk their land again, but enemy spies had managed to work their way close to Maric before. Oh, if it had happened again... he would find the monster and make him regret the day the Maker had sent him into the world.

Celia leaves him there; he only notices she's gone after some minutes, perhaps more. She returns later, when the sun has set and cold winds are blowing from the sea.

 

 **XIII**.

Anora doesn't understand why he has to go. Celia explains: ''The Queen was very sick, Ani. She's gone now, to be with the Maker. Your father--your father has to make sure her people are alright. The King, and Prince Cailan.'' 

''I want to go. I want to help!'' Anora exclaims. She does not cry, but her bottom lip is trembling ever so slightly. But she is old enough, strong enough to bear the shock of it, this Loghain knows. Strong enough to endure. 

The night before he leaves, Celia brings him food he doesn't touch. ''I've already missed the ceremony. I should've gone sooner, I-'' 

''You knew the Queen better than any of those who attended, safe for the King--perhaps. I know you did.'' Her tone bears no accusation, no judgement; when she takes his hands in hers and rests her head on his chest, he doesn't push her away. ''You don't tell me these things. It's alright; you don't have to. I know. And I know Ani will know, too. Even if you give her to the King's golden little boy. I know you want to.''

He kisses her forehead, holds her close, tighter than he has in years. ''You'll have to tell me about all you saw and did during the war one day, my lord Teyrn.''

''I will,'' Loghain lies. He has buried the war too deep to dig it up anytime soon. Only hatred remains, and Celia deserves more than to hear about the horrors that keep him up at night. ''One day, my lady Teyrna, I promise.''

He leaves for Denerim the morning after and doesn't return for a year.

It is easier that way.

 

 **XIV**. 

Loghain asks: ''But what was it?'' 

''I do not know.''

A silence. ''Did she suffer?'' 

A silence. ''No.'' (Loghain knows it for the lie it is, but find he cannot hate Maric for trying to fool himself as well.) 

And on Maric's face is painted an accusation: _You should have been there._

And thus, Loghain says: ''I know.''


End file.
